


When The Canary Stops Singing

by vaderina



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Bed-Wetting, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Comfort Sex Without Comfort, Control Issues, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Death Threats, Eating Disorders, Feral Behavior, Forced Orgasm, Graphic Description, Humiliation, Injury, M/M, Minor Character Death, Night Terrors, No happy endings, Panic Attacks, Prisoner of War, Rape, Self-Harm, Sleepwalking, Torture, Violence, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-25 19:04:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12042273
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vaderina/pseuds/vaderina
Summary: Newt and Graves were captured and became prisoners of war. Their ordeal has left them broken and terrified beyond words.The tags are for the complete story and won't change as chapters are added.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Apocynaceae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apocynaceae/gifts).



> Not beta read.  
> Characters do not belong to me - only the typos and mistakes.
> 
> Tags are for the whole story, not for just single chapters so some tags may not be relevant until late on.
> 
> This would not have been possible without the amazing Apocynaceae who helped bounce ideas around and generally cheer lead throughout this.

The screams didn’t die down, instead they became muffled. The raucous laughter that had accompanied the callously cast curses remained. At least Graves’ shrieks of agony were easier to ignore. They had to get out of there. The planning of their escape was distracting enough to stop the cries and begging from being the centre of their focus. Plan in place they moved as one, the door swung open on silent hinges under the ministrations of a bowtruckle. They crept up the stairs on silent feet.

The sight before them was sickening. At least Graves’ union suit was back around his waist but there was no ignoring the blood on the seat of his pants. His back was turned to them and one of the captors kicked him in the stomach. Graves gagged, pushed himself up on shaking arms, his back heaved as his stomach roiled.

“If you throw up you’re going to have to clean it up. I’ll make you lick the floor clean.” One of the captors warned. It didn’t stop Graves though, with a final heave sick splattered on the floor. The acrid stench of bile and semen hit their noses.

“Clean that up.” Their captor snarled. A heavy booted foot landed on Graves’ back and pushed him down. Collectively they winced as one as filthy boots ground into sluggishly bleeding cuts – a mixture of curses and belt marks. Where the skin was still intact it was a mottled red and purple already. The edges of some of the wounds were ragged with flayed skin curling and dying at the edges. The buckle of the belt had torn easily into vulnerable flesh.

“I said lick it clean.” The boot pressed down harder and Graves’ back curved under the pressure. “Lick it up or the British bitch comes up and takes your place. With pretty lips like that I reckon I could easily go another round. You’ll even get to watch. Perhaps suck him off while we take turns. He’ll learn to loath your mouth quickly, wouldn’t you love that?”

They stood frozen and watched as tears dripped into the mess on the floor and Graves let out a sob, eyes scrunched tightly shut as he fought down another retch. His tongue peeked out from between his lips as he fought down heaves, face mere centimetres from what he’d thrown up just moments before.


	2. Chapter 2

He was soft in Newt’s mouth, flaccid and warm. If guns hadn’t been pointed at both their heads Newt would have spat him out already and pulled him into his arms. The relentless shoves that pushed at Percival’s body as it was violently invaded repeatedly slowly got the desired result of their captors. Percival’s tears splashed into Newt’s hair and down his forehead as he knelt in front of him, hands gently caressing his bare hips in the faintest whisper of comfort and apology.

Someone else took their place behind Percival and a fresh scream was torn from his throat as he tried to buck away. Only it forced him deeper into Newt’s throat and made him gag. Tears gathered in the corner of Newt’s eyes as he tried to swallow around the cock in his mouth. By the time the third captor took his turn Percival was clutching at Newt’s shoulder, fingers digging into the bony curves he found there, his breathing as harsh and fast as his tears. He trembled above Newt as finally the man behind him finished. The smell of blood and semen as it trickled down his thighs burnt Newt’s nose.

“Finish him off.” A captor growled and cocked a gun against Newt’s head. He redoubled his efforts, thankful of having had the chance to practice when something like sex was still considered pleasurable. He urged Percival to use his mouth, to at least try and chase a moment of bliss where he could forget everything that was going on around them. The cry Graves gave when he flooded Newt’s mouth wasn’t one of pleasure. It was the broken howl of defeat as his thighs trembled and his fingers bit into Newt’s shoulder.

“Fucking crymaxer.” A captor snarled in disgust and shoved Percival forwards. He fell on top on Newt and they were left in a heap as the door was closed and locked behind their captors once again.


	3. Chapter 3

It had been over two weeks and there was still no sign of any rescue nor was there a hope of escape. Even if there had been Newt doubted Graves was in any condition to run. He’d been taken again, they rarely made Newt watch the torture now, not since they had him take part. Newt’s stomach roiled at the memories and he swallowed down the bile that threatened to rise. He couldn’t afford to fall apart, Graves had been gone for longer than usual, even his cries and screams weren’t so loud today. The last few days had been especially tough, their captors would carelessly toss Graves back into their cell and leave while Newt was left to try and hold Graves together only for the torture to begin again if not the next day then soon.

Newt could hear them coming, dragging a limp body down the corridor. He braced himself for the worst and when the door swung open a body was thrown through it landed on the ground like a broken ragdoll. Newt didn’t dare move until the lock had clicked then he was rushing over, turning Graves onto his back to ease his wheezing breaths. His eyes briefly flickered open but scanned the room unseeing, breath bubbling on his lips. Newt was losing him, he knew. There was no way someone could survive such brutal tortures for long. No way for someone to want to keep living like this. He couldn’t blame Graves but the spark of fear at being left alone, of maybe even having to take Graves’ place had him frantically searching for solution. Under his palm he could feel Graves’ chest rise and fall in shuddering gasps as he fought on.

“Don’t leave me. Please.” Newt begged, fingers trying to find a patch of unmarked skin to touch. There were bruises, scratches, burns all over Graves’ body, not just limited to his torso. With what little magic he could muster Newt tried to keep the wounds clean, to stop an infection ravaging Graves’ already battered body. His pleas didn’t get a reply, just more shallow gasps of a dying man giving up.

“No.” Newt almost pounded on his chest in desperation to keep him from slipping away between his helpless hands. Graves coughed painfully which left him wheezing wetly. There were no tears, both their tears had dried up after the first week, they learnt they were only more fuel for their captors. Desperation clawed at Newt as Graves’ eyes fluttered. The swirl of magic and his words came almost unbidden as he pushed down on Graves’ chest and forced as much magic as he could muster into the other man.

“Imperio.” Newt uttered, the word foreign on his lips and burnt with a bitter taste. He could see the moment it took hold of Graves, the man’s face slackened into dumb servitude. “I order you to stay alive. Do whatever it takes but you keep breathing and pull through this, understand? You must live.”

A shaking, blood crusted and nail-less hand trembled up towards Newt like some twisted mockery of benediction. He thought it would come to rest on his cheek like it had a few times before when tears needed to be wiped away with a gentle thumb. Instead it wrapped around the back of his neck and pulled him down. Newt thought he’d listen to Graves’ last words whispered in his ear and braced himself for the ultimate heartache. The last words of a dying man used to berate him for stupidly using an unforgivable curse rather than to perhaps beg him to pass on a message to a loved one when he got out. Raw bitten bloody lips pressed against dry chapped ones and Newt froze. Understanding flooded through him. He could do this, he bitterly thought. He had to do this.


	4. Chapter 4

It became a running joke for their captors, each time they took Graves Newt would called after him voice bordering between an order and begging.

“Keep breathing, stay alive.”

Each time Newt said those words the world would wash a little blander for Graves, the words etched into his mind. Their captors thought it was almost cute, the way Graves would sag when he heard those words. An order he couldn’t not obey. Each time he heard them they scorched into his very being and forced him to breathe through whatever horrors their captors had dreamed up. He began a litany of his name, rank and number from the Great War, it focussed him and took his mind away from his body being broken in new and creative ways. His breath would rattle and wheeze over the words and numbers. Percival Graves. Captain. Alpha-Sierra-1-0-3-9.  Each word, sometimes each syllable was punctuated by a breath he was forced to take. No matter how painful nor how unwanted it was, each breath forced its way into his lungs with a rattle and left as a gasp of his name, rank or serial number.

When he was thrown back into the cell he’d lie on his back, eyes glazed over, the same words whirling in his mind and pushed out through his bloody lips as Newt leant closer to hear what he said. It had been a week since any other word has left him, his world boiled down to pain, breathing, his name, rank and serial number. Newt would hold him close while some nights he jerked awake from nightmares, his litany falling from his lips the loudest it had been in a while. Percival Graves. Captain. Alpha-Sierra-1-0-3-9. Percival Graves. Captain. Alpha-Sierra-1-0-3-9. Everything else washed away under Newt’s words, his reminder to do what he needed to stay alive. He needed to forget. Graves just needed to remember who he was and the war had taught him that well. He was just a name, rank and serial number – nothing else. It helped him survive then and now it was doing so again. Slowly, with each new reiteration of his need to live he was unmade into just a name, a rank and serial number.

Their captors grew bored of Graves’ insistence of repeating his existence. Even when they drew raw screams from his throat it was still those words and nothing else. His captors would howl them with him and laugh raucously as they mocked him. Eventually though they’d had their fun, in their eyes Graves was a broken doll, like a record that skipped and repeated. It became mundane even to see how much they could get his voice to break on each word. Whether they could barely draw it out of him as a whisper or if they could make his voice crack as he shrieked his identity.

It was time for a change. Their captors filed into their cell and Newt backed away from Graves. He was ashamed to not defend him but very early on he’d learnt the futility of it. If he was in the way he’d get kicked and shoved out of the way. He still had a loose tooth from the time he got punched for trying to keep them from Graves who they wanted for a second session in a day. Instead he flattened himself against a wall and let them descend on Graves who was curled on his side and dozing fitfully. Their captors stepped over Graves and approached Newt with lewd grins. He was a new toy to break in and they looked forward to the change from Graves’ boring name, rank, serial number recitals. Newt had his back against the wall, had nowhere to run as he was hemmed in from all sides. Two people grabbed his arms and he struggled, desperation flooding him with energy he so rarely had to break free.

The hands on him were strong though, he was caught like a leaf in a hurricane as he jerked around yet unable to change his course.

“No, please. Don’t. No.” he begged, tears threatened to spill over his cheeks. He couldn’t do this. He wasn’t strong like Graves and he wouldn’t be able to survive the tortures they had put the other man through. His time in the war was with dragons, not on the front line and he had never been prepared for the brutality it could involve. They were almost at the door. Newt dug his heels into the cold unforgiving ground to try and stop them. Still they dragged him on with jeers.

“Graves. Help me. Please.” Newt cried in desperation. Their captors laughed and turned to Graves with a mocking laugh. They didn’t realise how those words compelled Graves to act even if all he wanted was a moment of piece where he wasn’t the object of their torment. His eyes blinked open. It was like watching an old, tired and beaten circus tiger haul itself to its feet. After all he’d been put through, whipped into submission and cowering in terror it was easy to forget the power he wielded even with muscles that had wasted away. He uncurled and dead eyes regarded their captors with a flat stare. There was no emotion, just the desire to obey.

“Help me.” Newt whispered again into the still silence. The world seemed to freeze and Graves coiled in preparation. Their captors not quite believing their eyes at the sight of a beaten man preparing for a final stand. Then he attacked. It was brutal. No playing with his prey, going straight for the kills. Graves ripped with his fingers, bit with his teeth with little heed for anything. The first of their captors fell, eyes gouged out and throat ripped out. Blood dripped from Graves’ chin. The rest of their captors fled, shoving Newt in Graves’ way and slamming the door shut behind them, hastily clicking the lock into place. Graves directed Newt away from the dead body and let them sink to the ground with a gentleness so unexpected compared to his ruthlessness not moments before. He cradled Newt close to his chest and let him shake apart, his words sounded almost like a reassuring apology muttered into Newt’s hair even if they were just his name, rank and serial number.


	5. Chapter 5

The stench permeated even the scarf tied round Theseus’ face and he gagged despite himself. His team fared not much better though they all had empty stomachs by the time they’d reached the stairs that led down into darkness. With the reek of sweet rotting flesh that cloyed the stark corridor they weren’t expecting to find anything other than dead bodies but they still owed it to the prisoners to at least lay them to rest in shallow graves rather than leave them to fester in the cell they’d been left to die in. Theseus steeled himself and let the door at the bottom of the stair swing open. The smell was so much worse, overpowering and the body looked bloated and almost liquid. Theseus’ eyes lingered on the body, eyes gouged out brutally and what looked like chunks of flesh missing from its leg and arms. Teeth marks. They weren’t the bites to inflict pain or wounds of self-defence and Theseus’ stomach twisted as he retched at the realisation.

Movement caught his attention and thankfully broke the captivation he had with the dead body by the door. A skeletal figure was crawling, hands and knees into the darker corners of the room. A survivor. Theseus’ heart thudded in his chest and he pulled his wand up, ready to cast an illumination charm. A snarling body slammed into his, feeble in the face of the rage, all energy spent on tackling him. They stumbled, Theseus carried the dead weight of his attacker and they fell to the ground. His had landed with a sickening squelch on the cadaver and sank into the oozing flesh. On top of him the growling body was weak and it was a matter of simply flipping them over, his would be attacker was now under him, on the verge of passing out but no less ferocious, teeth snapping. Theseus jabbed his wand under the other’s chin.

“Don’t hurt him!” A voice from the dark cried and Theseus froze. He knew that voice, even weak and panicked as it was, it was a voice he’d never expected to hear again. He bore the empty casket down the aisle months back and cried himself to sleep over never hearing it again for many nights. Beneath him the body went curiously still, as though his strings had been cut. One of his team cast a light above them and Theseus took in the wild, dark eyes that almost glowed in the sallow brittle sea of grimy skin and sharp bones.

“Graves.” He whispered. The man looked ready to pass out under him.

“Captain. Alpha-Sierra-“

“1-0-3-9.” I remember. Theseus finished for him. From the corner of the cavern the skeletal figure from earlier began its crawl back towards them. Hair matted, clothes torn he crawled on shaky limbs. By the time he got halfway across he was panting, gasping for breath, arms barely held him up. Under the light he squinted as he looked up but there was no relieved smile there.

“I didn’t think you’d come.” Newt said. It rocked Theseus’ world, his little brother whom he’d buried and grieved for was the pitiful creature that dragged itself on its hands and knees towards his liberators.

“I didn’t know you were here.” Theseus replied. He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. They weren’t even expecting prisoners to rescue in the camp, nobody knew what had happened to Newt and Graves, they’d disappeared in an ambush so long ago. The break was enough to get Newt moving again, he snarled at anyone who tried to get near him. His team looked to Theseus for guidance who shook his head. If Newt didn’t want anyone near him or touching him then nobody would anymore. After a few painful minutes where Graves was pliant under him and Newt pulled himself closer the three of them were finally within touching distance. A filthy, bony hand reached trembling for them and Theseus’ heart broke. His brother who seemed to be unable to tolerate anyone else near him seemed to be reaching for him. He almost reached back but the hand wasn’t for him. It linked fingers with Graves’ mangled hands crusted in blood and who knew what else.

“You did well. You can sleep now.” Newt murmured so softly that it was almost painfully tender for the setting. Graves went limp under Theseus, eyes slipped shut and Newt took another second to stare at him before he looked up at his brother.

“We’ll make our own way home now.” It was such a ridiculous idea that Theseus let out a bark of a laugh.

“Newt, brother. We’re here to help. We’ll get you home.”

“You didn’t come when we needed you the most. We don’t need you anymore. We’ll be fine. Leave.” Newt looked stern and fierce under the layers of dirt. An embodiment of the grim reaper himself when he bared his teeth.

“You’re in no condition to go anywhere by yourself Newt. Let us help. Please.” Theseus was so desperate to make amends for leaving Newt to rot in such a place that be wasn’t above begging.

“There’s nothing to be done. We’re fine. We managed, we survived and we will keep doing so.” Newt was almost serene in his assuredness. He never noticed two of Theseus’ team sneaking up behind him and at Theseus’ nod they grabbed Newt.

“No!” Newt screams and thrashed weakly until a spell sent him limp and unconscious. Immediately Theseus was up and taking his broken body in his arms, lifting the too light body and cradled it close to his chest. He barked orders for someone to get Graves and they ascended out of the grotesque pit of death into the light.


	6. Chapter 6

The hospital was too bright, too stark and too clinical. After finding his brother and his friend Theseus started spending more time than he would have ever liked to in the building. It was almost worse than believing them to be dead  he mulled as he walked between the rooms.

When he visited Graves at first the man was sedated, his wounds half-healed, bones reset and pink skin stretched new and soft over cuts and burns. He looked better, the healers were muttering about his magic being slow to return but it crackled in the air sporadically. They said it was a good sign, that he wasn’t permanently damaged from his time in captivity. Theseus didn’t want to argue how he’d seen men in the wars and while they physically returned from the frontlines parts of their souls were left to forever flutter on the barbed wires of the trenches.

By contrast Newt was sat up in his bed as he fussed over his fork aligning perfectly opposite the knife on the other side of the bowl. Everything was precise, there wasn’t a crease on his bed covers. The swelling on his cheek and eyes had gone down, just a faint discolouration was left behind as a gentle, almost cheerfully colourful reminder of the harsh past.

“How you feeling Newt?” Theseus asked. His brother didn’t jump though he seriously doubted he’d noticed Theseus enter the room. Instead he slowly raised his head, measured and controlled the way he’d never been before. Newt’s eyes fixed on him unerringly.

“I’m fine.”

“Have you talked to the healers about everything?”

“I’m not allowed to talk about anything until I’ve given my statement this afternoon.” Newt’s voice was flat, no underlying tones to give away his emotional state. It was all so perfectly measured and polite that if Theseus hadn’t known him from before then he would have passed as perfectly unaffected. “You can stay if you’d like and listen.” The nonchalance hurt almost as much as the unwavering stare. After an uncomfortable stretch of silence Newt returned to adjusting the spoon above the plate.

“Aren’t you going to eat that?” Theseus prompted gently.

“I will. But I’m not hungry at the moment. So I thought I’d save it for later.” Newt said, none of his familiar mumbling present and Theseus missed his brother for a moment. They sat in silence, Newt minutely adjusting the utensils and smoothing out creases on the bed, he seemed to forget that Theseus was even there. After a while Theseus stood and looked out the charmed window, behind him there was the quiet click of the bedside cabinet being opened. He turned in time to see Newt settle back in the bed and focus on the new creases that had appeared on his sheets. A moment later the smell of rotten food struck Theseus’ nose and he noticed the bread roll was conspicuously missing from its plate.

“Newt,” he began and walked towards the cabinet. In a flash a wand was pointed at him, Newt’s eyes dark.

“Don’t touch it.”

“Have you been stashing food in the bedside cabinet to make people think you’ve been eating?” Theseus almost cried at the idea. Newt’s weight had been a worry for the healers, no matter how much food he ate it was still almost critically low.

“I said don’t touch it.” The tip of the wand glowed a fierce red and Theseus threw his hands up in defeat. He’d have a look in there when Newt was taken for more treatment. Probably clear it all out and disinfect it too judging by the smell. As soon as he was far enough away the wand was vanished into the bed and Newt was peacefully back to smoothing out the covers.

A knock on the door followed by the entry of a group to debrief Newt broke any kind of tension they had. Newt eyed them with cautious curiosity but said nothing. The group conjured up chairs, introduced themselves and even offered Theseus a chair by the door. He had already given his report and as a member of the rescue party and a family member he was allowed to stay.

“So, let us start at the beginning.” The leader of the group said almost kindly. Newt nodded and licked his lips. His eyes became distant as he began to recite his recollection of what had happened in a monotone voice. Theseus gritted his teeth and listened as Newt was guided through the events from before capture to the torture he and Graves had endured. By the time he got to the detailed descriptions of what he and Graves were forced to do Theseus felt sick. He’d seen the effects of war, knew of the horrors prisoners had gone through. But knowing about it and hearing a first-hand account from his little brother were completely different. Newt’s voice never wavered, never changed from its steady drone. When he mentioned Graves having to lick up his own vomit Theseus broke and left the room. Newt never stopped talking with the distant look in his eye despite Theseus almost falling over himself to leave.

To calm himself down and perhaps allay some of his guilt Theseus decided to stop by Graves’ room. He neared it to find a huge commotion in the corridor. A pillow flew out of the door and healers as well as security were muttering urgently.

“What’s going on?” Theseus asked.

“The army asked us to bring him out of sedation for a debriefing. Unfortunately he’s violent and beyond control and we can’t do much other than contain him.” A healer replied.

“What about a sleeping charm?”

“You think we haven’t tried everything? He’s got shields up, won’t let anyone in the room and will attack.”

“Let me go in and try.” Theseus offered, he knew Graves. At least he knew the Graves of before so perhaps that would be enough to get him to calm down.

“On your head it be.” The healer frowned but made no move to stop him. The room was a mess, the bed was on its side, cabinet strewn across the floor where vials lay shattered and leaking potions. There was a dent in the wall and the curtains from around the bed were torn down haphazardly.

“Graves?” Theseus asked. A bottle came sailing through the air towards his head. Theseus ducked and cautiously approached the bed. He ignored the snarl as something else was flung over it. “I’m here to help.” He tried to sound calm and reassuring. There was silence and Theseus dared take another step. In that moment Graves was up from behind his barricades and wordlessly, wandlessly cast spells and hexes to repel him. Theseus barely had time to block them with his own shields but he didn’t counter. He waited patiently weathering out the exhausting assault of a desperate creature.

“You quite done?” Theseus asked in a lull. That was enough to have Graves roaring at him with renewed vitriol and cast more spells no less violent but more shaky and unpredictable as the man tired.

“You need to talk to me if you want something.” Theseus’ patience was running thin, memories of what Newt had described so flatly like some factual recording of events rather than what he’d lived through rankled him. He knew they were in an awful situation and had to seek any sort of comfort they could while it was possible.

“Graves. Captain. Alpha-Sierra 1-0-3-9.” Graves screamed at him. “Graves. Captain. Alpha-Sierra 1-0-3-9.”

“I get it. I was there, remember?” Theseus snapped. It shut Graves up, his ire seemed to burn the fight out of him. But it was too late and the wide brown eyes as the man shrank back on himself in face of so much misdirected anger couldn’t stop Theseus. “I was there too, the first time round. But a Scamander in every war, right? Doesn’t matter which one as long as you get sink your dick into it. I know.”

Graves rocked back and forth, clutching his knees.

“Graves. Captain. Alpha-Sierra 1-0-3-9.” He repeated again and again in soft brittle tones.

“I know.” Theseus growled. “Stop saying that.” He completely missed the subtle change, how Graves lost his first name, too consumed by his own helplessness and terror. There was a noise behind him and the debriefing group moved into the room. At once Graves was back on his feet with an angry scream.

“Get the other Scamander.” One of the group yelled as they retreated out of the room. A minute later Newt was wheeled down the corridor.

“I told you that I’d stopped the spell.” Newt said without any wonder or remorse. All the same he stood up outside the door where something crashed into the wall. Pale and gaunt he shuffled into the room.

“Hello Graves.” There was a slight hint of warmth in his voice, the first change Theseus had heard since he’d found them. There was silence then a whimper, whispers of a serial number burned into Theseus’ mind that sounded more like relief and an apology at the same time. The group there to debrief Graves entered the room, from the back Theseus could see Graves snarl and bare his teeth as he pushed Newt behind him. Magic crackled in the air.

“None of that now. They’re here to help.” Newt’s hand on his shoulder relaxed him though he still looked wary.

“Thank you. We’d just like to ask you a few questions about your capture and captivity.”

“Graves. Captain. Alpha-Sierra 1-0-3-9.” Graves growled.

“Thank you, yes, we know that. Tell us about how you were captured.”

“Graves. Captain. Alpha-Sierra 1-0-3-9.”

Theseus backed out of the room. He wasn’t going to be much help there, Graves was beyond words and it was a pointless exercise. Instead he went back to Newt’s room and braced himself as he opened the bedside cabinet. The foul stink of rotten food was strong, heaped into the cabinet were entire meals, fruits, desserts, anything Newt could stash in there. The undetectable extension charm that held the food was all too familiar. Theseus sighed and began to clear out what he could. The roll from earlier sat on top of the rotting pile. No wonder Newt wasn’t putting on weight, almost all of the food was in the cabinet, some items had a bite missing but that was about all.

Once it was clear and smelt a little less offensive Theseus headed back to Graves’ room. The debriefing team were gone, the room was back to a relatively organised state and Newt was sat alongside Graves. Both had sandwiches in front of them.

“I told you, I ceased the spell as soon as possible. And your healers said they’d unpicked every curse from him. I no longer hold him to my will.” Newt’s voice carried as sure and flat as his gaze on the healer. “Eat.” Newt urged Graves who stared at the sandwich before falling onto it like a starving man. He stuffed as much into his mouth, barely chewed before he was swallowing and going in for the next mouthful.

“Take the other one too.” Newt’s suggestion was followed as Graves grabbed the sandwich in his other hand, cheeks bulged with his bite.

“For his healing you will not be allowed to see him again.” The healer said with an air of finality. “General Scamander, would you please escort your brother to his room? I have other patients to attend to.”

Silently Theseus nodded and wheeled Newt away from Graves who paid them no mind, too preoccupied with the food. There was nothing to say once Newt was back in his room and Theseus left while Newt fussed with his sheets. He wasn’t sure why he walked by Graves’ room again. Perhaps to apologise to the man for his outburst earlier. Theseus stuck his head in the room but Graves was nowhere to be found. A retching from behind the bed caught his attention.

“Graves?” he called out. The man’s head popped up from behind the bed, a light sheen of sweat and wide eyes greeted him before he was leaning over again to vomit up what he’d just eaten.

“Too much too quick by any chance?” Theseus asked as he approached. Graves looked up at him again and whimpered, eyes brimmed with tears. He looked at Theseus then at the puddle of vomit. He licked his lips. Theseus was momentarily amused by the reaction, like a dog guarding its own vomit before Newt’s words sprang to mind. Graves had been forced to lick up his mess. He felt sick as he watched Graves tremble as he bent down, the threat of his conditioning overpowering him.

“No!” Theseus yelled and Graves stopped, a whimper broke through his quivering lips. “You don’t need to do that anymore, I’ll clean it up.” Unthinking Theseus lay and hand on his shoulder to stop him and reassure him. Graves snapped at him, swinging round with a low, threatening growl and a spell sent Theseus flying into the wall. Humiliated and furious at himself and the situation Theseus huffed.

“Fine. Suit yourself.” He sneered and walked out the room as Graves’ head disappeared behind the bed again.


	7. Chapter 7

The difference between determined and stubborn was a fine line. Theseus could tightrope walk across the divide and people could call him either. It was why he continued to visit both Graves and Newt in hospital. They weren’t the men he knew from before the war but they were shadows of them and he felt he owed them enough to warrant his somewhat unwelcome visits. The two men were not allowed to see each other, they were moved further apart in the hospital after Graves rampaged through the corridors several nights a week to find Newt. After weeks of hospital care there seemed to be no difference in either of them. Graves was still violent, unpredictable, and non-verbal. He was all but feral, the way he attacked without any provocation. He was fiercely protective of his food and Theseus was saddened to note that more often than not he’d purge after eating. At first the healers thought he was just hungry because of all the energy he’d exerted on both healing and the attacks. So they supplied him with endless amounts of food. Each time Graves would polish it off, no matter how much he was given. The cleaners would later find the piles of vomit artfully hidden. At first they were hidden by papers so they got removed from his room. Then the bedside cabinet moved and underneath it was another pile. That’s how the bedside cabinet got spelled to the ground with a sticking spell. The day Graves’ pillow was taken away because it covered another splatter of vomit was the day Theseus had had enough.

He’d been to see Newt first. It was always the harder visit of the two because Newt could converse with him. It was pleasant, superficial and absolutely flat. They’d talk about current events, how Theseus was doing, even how Newt was doing (though the answer was unerringly always “fine”) but it wasn’t the same. There was no spark of life in Newt, none of his childlike wonder and not once did he ask about his case. For all his seeming normality Newt could have been an animated cardboard cut-out caricature of his former self. Theseus was sitting on the chair a proper distance from the bed. Long gone were the days he and Newt could curl up in bed for a chat. The only time he’d tried to sit on the bed in the hospital Newt had gone quiet, stock still with forced even breaths. Theseus still didn’t know if it was the proximity or the wrinkles in the sheets that set Newt off but his panic was palpable despite its invisibility.

It was purely by accident that Theseus noticed. Lunch had been served and Newt moved it around on his plate until everything was evenly spread. The salad sorted by leaf types, the side dishes of peas and sweetcorn sorted into tidy triangles on the plate while the meat sat at a perfect right angle off them. His utensils were then meticulously wiped and placed perfectly aligned next to the plate.

“Not hungry?” Theseus asked bitterly.

“Nope.” Newt didn’t smile cheekily like he would have done in the past at such a blatant lie. Instead he stretched forward to smooth an invisible crinkle out of the sheet. His shirt rode up his side with the motion. At first Theseus thought he could see the outline of his brother’s ribs, neat lines down his side. But ribs didn’t extend down to hips. Nor were they so surgically precise. Horror dawned on Theseus. He’d seen such marks before. In the battlefield first aid centres. Victims of slicing hexes who weren’t fortunate enough to suffer a quick death. Before he could think his arm was on Newt’s shoulder, the other hand pushing up his shirt. Under his palm Newt stilled his motions but the trembles of fear were easy to feel. Ashamed of his actions Theseus stopped trying to see the wounds and in the silence he could hear the shaky, heavy breaths as Newt fought to control his fear. Theseus sprang away the instant he realised Newt was only a few breaths away from a full blown panic attack. He gave him the space and watched as Newt pulled his arm back, crinkle in the sheets forgotten. His eyes were hazy and distant in a way Theseus hated. It was a painful few minutes where Theseus could only watch his brother claw himself back from whatever hell he’d been catapulted into by a simple touch.

“Newt?” he ventured, voice soft in the silence.

“Yes?” came the shaky yet flat reply.

“Are those cuts on your side?”

“Would it matter if they were?” Newt stared at him without blinking.

“They weren’t in the initial assessment report when you were brought in.”

“Why would they be?” Newt’s gaze left Theseus uncomfortable and suddenly he wished for Newt’s annoying habit of staring up through his fringe to resurface. The question raised an uncomfortable question in Theseus. One he wasn’t sure how to ask. Deep down he knew the scars looked too new. Too fresh to be weeks old festering wounds that healed too late after being inflicted. He’d read the reports too and nowhere did Newt nor the medical reports mention slicing hexes. Whipping and belting marks by the dozen, curses of an almost eyebrow raisingly creative variety sure but never magically inflicted cuts. Theseus took a deep breath.

“Did you…?” He couldn’t finish the sentence. Couldn’t think of Newt late at night in his hospital bed, pointing his wand at his side and gritting is teeth as magic split the flesh. The glimpse he got of the still knitting together scars was enough to tell him that they were getting deeper.

“Would it matter? I have enough scars that a few more won’t make a difference.” Newt replied to the unspoken question.

“It would matter to me. Why? Newt, why do this to yourself?” Theseus wasn’t going to cry. He was the bastion of calm that needed to anchor Newt, and to an extent Graves, to this reality. He couldn’t afford to fall apart.

“Because.” Newt shrugged.

“Because?”

“It makes me feel real. That I’m not in some coma back in that dark pit. Because I control my pain and not them. Because I deserve it and it’s the only way I feel clean.”

Something cold and heavy settled over Theseus’ shoulders like a mantle. He’d been kept up to date with Newt’s progress but nowhere had it mentioned the cuts. The self-inflicted suffering. In fact the reports were talking of releasing Newt because he seemed to be doing okay. He showed no outward sign of struggling to cope except for a rather flat demeanour which was, it their eyes an okay response.

“What if I asked you to stop?”

“What if I asked you to stop biting your nails when you’re stressed?” the monotone delivery added such an awful air to the question, like a demonic child in those wireless plays about possession Theseus once upon a time enjoyed listening it.

“That’s different.”

“Is it?”

Theseus couldn’t hold it together any longer and he walked out the room. Newt wasn’t any better than when they rescued him. He hid everything under a façade of indifference that was so thorough he wondered if even Newt knew just what he was feeling or should be feeling. It was beyond Theseus’ coping skills and he had to leave. Graves at least would be easier to cope with because while no less damaged it was at least a visible kind of brokenness that Graves couldn’t make any effort to hide.

The room was stark, empty and cold. A mattress was spelled to be stuck to the ground and there was a light blanket on it, nothing more. Graves was rocking in the corner muttering his serial number and Theseus saw red. The room was not much better than the cell they’d been kept in, it had a small amount of comfort and it was bright and clean where the cell had been dark and filthy but it lacked all civility and was worse than a prison cell in Azkaban. Behind Theseus a healer walked by and he whirled round to get answers.

“Why’s his room so empty?” The healer looked startled at the sudden question.

“He gets violent and will use anything as an offensive weapon. When he isn’t acting out he hides vomit in his room. We can’t keep cleaning up after him all the time. Last night he slept in his own sick because he could only hide it in his bed. Can you imagine the mess the morning rounds became? It was disgusting.”

“So feed him less.” Theseus growled and the healer laughed.

“You think we haven’t tried that? Even if he’s starved for a day and given only an apple after 24 hours he’ll still throw up. There’s nothing physically wrong with him.”

What Graves couldn’t voice, couldn’t tell anyone was that no matter how hungry he got after the first few bites all he could taste was the rotten flesh of his captor. The awful taste of putrefied meat that clung in his throat and nose every time he ate. He could remember the way his teeth sank into the decay softened muscle and fat that he had to force down to survive. Graves had to live and for that he had to eat. He didn’t know why anymore but he knew he had to keep breathing.

That afternoon Theseus kicked up a fuss. He got into screaming matches with the head healer, with MACUSA representatives and anyone else who stood in his way. There was no visible improvement in Graves’ condition, he was probably never going to return home by himself let alone to work. He was going to be put in an institution, squirreled away from public sight so at least he didn’t have to suffer the humiliation of people gawking at how the mighty had fallen. When all was said and done Theseus signed the paperwork and returned home. He had three days to make his old family home habitable again rather than a shut away, dusty old mansion. It was hard work but with the help of friends and handsomely paid staff it was done.

The rooms he’d allocated Newt and Graves were next door to each other despite advice from the healers. What little he had seen of Graves and Newt together is seemed that they needed the other nearby. If a few months apart hadn’t done them any favours then a lifetime apart wouldn’t either. The two men arrived separately, Newt was easier so he was shown to his room where he stood, almost helpless and lost in his own home. Theseus tried to reassure him but in the end he closed the door behind himself as Graves was due to arrive, leaving Newt still standing in the middle of the room.

Graves was sedated for transportation. The forced sleep did not ease the creases between his brows and he was tied down with magically reinforced cuffs. None too gently he was deposited on his new bed before the transport team scurried out, Graves was no longer their concern and they had no desire to be there when he woke. To keep himself busy Theseus set about arranging a light dinner for them all. He wasn’t sure about Newt and Graves’ preferences for food so he kept it light and easy, just some fruits and cold meats. The sedative had Graves thoroughly under for most part of the afternoon and into the evening. Before he was due to even stir Theseus made his way up to Newt’s room. He knocked and opened the door. Immediately he wished he’d waited for Newt to invite him in. In the middle of the room Newt stood with his back to the door, he’d twisted wide eyed to see the intruder. One hand held his wand the other’s palm was covered in blood from a deep gash on the soft bit of his side between protruding hip bone and ribs.

“Newt.” Theseus gasped, automatically summoning healing potions, bandages and anything else he could think of. Frozen to the spot Newt watched with alarm but made no move to even put pressure over the cut to staunch the flow of blood. It seeped into his trousers and turned them a black-brown. In his efforts to help Theseus never noticed the ragged breaths Newt was drawing as his eyes remained fixed on the door. Theseus fussed over the wound, completely focussed on sealing the wound and keeping his brother as pain free as possible. He moved Newt’s arms out of the way, crouched in front of him to inspect the deep cut and tried to summon the dittany essence to help heal the wound. The sharp stench of urine pulled him out of his mission. He looked up at Newt who stared at him wide eyed, his trousers wet. Newt swallowed shakily as tears threatened to trickle down his cheeks.

“Jesus fuck Newt.” Theseus gasped and shoved himself away. “I’m not going to. Did you think I was-? Oh fuck. I’d never hurt you.”

Newt stood frozen in place and didn’t reply, he didn’t blink either. Just stared at his brother with huge terror filled eyes.

“Okay, okay.” Theseus ran a hand over his face. “Here’s what we’re going to do. Here’s the dittany, you apply that to your cut. Then bandage it with these. I’ll go get you some clean trousers. I’ll knock when I’m back and can just hand them in through the door if that would make you feel better. Okay?” He got no reply but he moved anyway, mind reeling.

By the time he got back with clean clothes Newt was mostly tidied up, the mess of bandages potions and everything else was militaristically stacked, tidied away. Theseus passed over the clean clothes and Newt took them unabashed and uncaring of the state he was in. It made something tighten in Theseus chest.

“You know I’d never hurt you.” He had to tell Newt.

“I know.” Was the simple reply he got and Theseus had to look away. Newt seemed to have no shame anymore as he stripped in front of his brother to change. The clothes he took off were precisely folded and placed in the laundry hamper, edges aligned and creases smoothed out.

“I thought you might like dinner in the dining room this evening.” Newt looked at him silently, dressed and presentable once again. But he was too still, standing in the middle of the room where Theseus had left him.

“Or I could bring it to you, if you’d prefer to go to bed early.” Theseus offered but got no reply. A crash from the room over finished any chance of them reaching a conclusion. “Get in bed, I’ll bring you food.” Theseus threw over his shoulder as he rushed to try and calm Graves.

In the darkened room Graves had pushed himself into a corner and he growled fiercely as Theseus approached. Noises seemed to set him off, a book was hurled towards Theseus when he tried to speak. So Theseus adapted, he stopped making noise, crouched down, made himself as small as possible and when he was close enough he began humming. It was an old lullaby his mother had hummed to her children. Graves watched him with wary eyes but eventually, after many minutes in the dark something relaxed.

“Newt’s in the room over, if you want to see him.” Theseus offered quietly when the melody died away. He didn’t expect to be pushed to the ground as the wraith that Graves had become launched past him. It took Theseus longer than he wanted to admit to pick himself up and only as he got to the door did he think that perhaps the two men would hurt each other. Instead he found them both on the bed, not quite touching but closer than either had let anyone else get. Theseus remembered all the times Newt quivered and shook when somebody touched him but it seemed Graves was an exception.

“I’ll bring dinner up.” Theseus muttered but it seemed neither men had heard him as they stared off into the distance. Down in the kitchen Theseus pulled the food onto a tray and grabbed some water while he was at it too. No doubt his new charges would be hungry. Slowly, he made his way up the stairs and pushed the door open with a shoulder. On the bed Graves and Newt were seemingly fast asleep. They faced each other, foreheads pushed together. Newt’s hand rested lightly on Graves’ neck, fingers on the steady, strong pulse. Quieter than when he entered Theseus left and tried not to think of the other times the two men had slept like that, Newt’s fingers desperately pressed to a thready and erratic pulse, the only confirmation that Graves was still alive and with him while they slept.


	8. Chapter 8

There was never an illusion that things were going to be magically easier. Nor that things were going to be easy at all. The knowledge still never fully prepared Theseus for what living with Newt and Graves was going to be like. He didn’t know where to start with his worries. Whether it was the fact that Newt barely ate, gave his share to Graves who binged then purged. Or the fact that Newt hardly ever left the room. He seemed to have ensconced himself in a bubble of neat order. Most things were removed from the room. Theseus found the bookshelf in the spare bedroom, the chest of drawers filled with new clothes in the corridor and he didn’t know where the other things had disappeared to. In the room itself contained the bed and an armchair, nothing else. They were precisely positioned, never a crease even in the curtains which were drawn shut at all times. It was like a comfortable barren cave warmer and softer than what they’d been found in but still a cave.

If Newt ever left their room Graves was his shadow, a snarling, fearsome guard that wove his way around Newt. Every small noise had their attention, each creak put them on edge. They padded through the mansion aimlessly, noting the exits and object which could be weaponised at a moment’s notice almost subconsciously. Half the time Theseus never even heard them out and about, he’d just arrive at their room with food and they were both gone. At first he tried to find them but after Graves almost pushed him down the stairs for getting too near Newt he learnt to just leave the tray and let the be.

Nights were difficult. To begin with Theseus had slept in a bedroom near them to try and help them settle in. He’d been through the wars, he was prepared for the screaming nightmares. Initially Theseus thought only Graves had nightmares because he’d wake screaming, his voice breaking on his serial number as he repeated it over and over again until he was hoarse. There was nothing Theseus could do, if he approached the bed it set Graves off again as he scrabbled off the bed, eyes wide and he’d back himself into a corner. Quickly Theseus found out that the best solution was to let Newt deal with it. It was selfish but the screaming stopped so much quicker for some reason. Once again Theseus was woken by shrieks interspersed by rank and serial number. It didn’t seem to quiet so he dragged himself out of bed to try and help however he could. The door swung open silently and Theseus could only awkwardly stare as his brother straddled Graves’ hips and leaned over him, whispering low and fervently to his friend. Graves stilled under him, broken gasps and bitten back sobs. Newt lowered their foreheads together and twisted them. Now he was under Graves, legs spread to bracket the man between them. A hand curled in Graves’ hair as he tugged him down.

“Take what you need.” Theseus heard him murmur and that’s when reality snapped back into focus like an elastic band that had been stretched too far then broke. Hastily he shut the door and sank down to the ground, back against the wall. He heard Newt’s initial pained gasps then all was silent. There was the odd creak of the bed but if he hadn’t seen the beginnings of what was going on in there Theseus would have been none the wiser. The next morning along with breakfast he left a bottle of lubricant on the side of the empty bed and never mentioned it again.

It was curious, the two men weren’t good for each other, a constant reminder of what they’d lived through and they enabled and fed the worries that came with the memories. Yet with Graves around Newt’s cutting seemed to lessen. At least Theseus had seen fewer new lines over his body. He’d run out of room on his sides, the insides of his upper arms, his thighs were also mottled with parallel, ordered lines. There was so much precision in their placement, like the room. Not a single one looked out of place in their almost militaristic pattern. It was a small mercy he thought before he wondered if there were other, new ways Newt was hurting himself that were less visible.

Late one night Theseus couldn’t sleep. He was in the sitting room with a mug of warm honeyed milk when he heard the front door’s lock click. Immediately he was up, wand in hand. The lock clicked again. He crept up to the door frame. Another click. And again. The lock clicked shut and open, locked then unlocked. Carefully Theseus peered round the wood to get a glimpse of the intruder. Newt stood there, Theseus’ old brown battered case which looked so much like his own by his feet. His hand was on the lock and as Theseus watched he twisted it locked, waited two breaths and unlocked it, another two breaths and it was locked, two more and unlocked. The cycle continued repetitively and Theseus snuck closer and his brother didn’t stir, his eyes were open but focussed so far away.

“Newt?” There was no response and Theseus approached his brother a little more boldly. He reached for the lock and locked it before Newt could twist it again after his two breaths. That got Newt to look in his direction but it was blank, like he was a ghost in Newt’s dream world.

“Let’s get you back to bed.” Theseus offered kindly. Newt reached for the battered case, hand firmly clutched around it and he moved. But rather than back up the stairs Newt moved into the sitting room and stood by the window. A click and the lock was open. Two breaths. Another click and it was locked. As gently as possible Theseus ushered Newt through the house, all locks checked and checked again, the brown leather case moved with them. It was the first time Theseus guided his brother through the house but it wasn’t the last. Over time along with the case Newt had somehow found one of his brother’s old woollen coats from his time as a junior auror. It was an ill-fitting thing on him, his too thin frame swamped by the breadth of the coat yet the arms were too short, the hem falling far above his bare ankles. The worst surprise for Theseus was when a straw appeared in the breast pocket and a large sponge was clutched under Newt’s arm like he’d seem the niffler be carried so often before.

Theseus had moved his bedroom after a few weeks, unable to cope with hearing the night terrors and the knowledge of just how the two in the room overcame them. The bottle of lubricant he’d left in the bedroom had disappeared, only to resurface in the kitchen cupboard, unopened. Theseus had tried to ask Newt about it gently, worry coloured his voice as he stumbled over words.

“When you wake up, locked in the memories of what had happened, straining in your underwear despite the fear because you’ve learnt to associate arousal with the terror the last thing you want is a gentle touch. You don’t have the time or the thought to do anything but act.” Newt explained hollow and flat. His eyes bore into Theseus.

“Not even just to ease things with a little slick?” Theseus stammered and he looked away, unable to cope with Newt’s stare.

“I did this to him. He needs this and it’s the only thing I can give him. I deserve the pain.” There was Theseus’ answer to his questions of self-harm and he closed his eyes to shut out the world for a moment.

“Just, keep it in the room, for me, please? In case you ever do get the chance to do more than just find comfort in the hurt.” He begged and Newt said nothing. The bottle was smashed in the garden the next morning, thrown from a window.

There was a sobbing from the corridor Theseus’ new bedroom was on. He woke to the sound of quiet tears being harshly quashed and something stumbling. Instantly Theseus was wide awake and he slipped from bed, concerned for the lost sounding hiccups that passed his door. Outside he glanced down the corridor, the outline of Graves leaning against the wall with one hand as he all but tripped into the darkness was barely visible.

“Graves?” Theseus called tentatively but there was no reaction. Normally by that point he’d have been on the receiving end of a torrent of curses and spells yet this time there was nothing. Theseus approached cautiously and rounded on Graves who seemed intent on dragging himself somewhere through his tears.

“Graves?” he tried again but went unheard. “Let’s get you back to bed. Come on.”

Carefully Theseus began to guide his friend back towards the bedroom, they went down the stair and Graves’ sobbing became harsh and panicked. Outside their door he froze and mumbled small pleas as he tried to back away. Theseus let the door swing open and Graves bolted. Or tried to, instead his legs caught on his striped pyjamas and he crashed into the ground. That at least seemed to wake him, feral terrified growls burst from his lips as Theseus backed away. He gave Theseus one last cautionary grumble before the bedroom door shut behind him.

Much like with Newt it wasn’t a one off the Theseus came across Graves quietly sobbing and aimlessly wandering the house. Like that he was pliant and soft, he was terrified of Newt though and some nights Theseus would settle him on the sofa with a warm blanket and reassurances that he was fine. Mornings that followed such nights were strained and almost worse than nights where it was Newt who wandered from lock to lock. Graves was hyperaware of everything when he woke, anything in his way was obliterated until he was wrapped in Newt’s presence again like a stray cat. Some mornings Newt would fetch him on shaky legs and Theseus had to wonder why Newt looked so awful.

He found out the hard way. Graves was settled quietly on the couch, tears giving way to sniffles as he fell back to proper sleep. Tired, no, exhausted from the continual nightly sagas Theseus wandered up to his room but thought he’d check on Newt first, make sure he was okay. At first glance he seemed fine, lying in bed on his back. Theseus wanted to pad on up to bed when he stepped on a creaking floorboard and he heard the terrified little gasp from the room. He turned back to look, as he squinted in the dark he noticed the small details, the rapid rise and fall of Newt’s chest, the glisten as his eyes stared petrified at the ceiling, the faintest trembling of muscles coiled for flight but nowhere to run.

“Newt?” Theseus called out and he got a little sigh of fear. “It’s okay. You’re okay.” He didn’t go any closer to the bed, Newt valued his distance and anyone other than Graves sent him into a spiral of frozen panic. Not like his distance seemed to matter in that instance, his mere presence was enough to have Newt off kilter. If he strained his eyes Theseus could make out the path of tears as they silently glided down Newt’s temple and into his hair.

“Newt?” he called out again. Something felt off, Newt wasn’t one to respond but this felt too extreme even for him. Theseus walked into the room and cast a soft glow to see better. The sheets were twisted around Newt, his sleepshirt had tangled around his chest and left the stark scars bare in sharp contrast to the rest of his skin. There was no response from his brother so Theseus laid a light hand on his ankle. The change was immediate, Newt let out a strangled gasp and curled tightly on his side, head protectively cradled behind his arms. Theseus didn’t want to think about the outlines of an erection that the blankets had done a poor job of hiding.

“You’re home Newt, you’re okay.” His reassurances seemed to fall on deaf ears as Newt stayed curled up tight. Theseus took a step away to try and give his brother a little breathing room. It didn’t seem to work until he’d backed up to the door. When there and quiet for a minute Newt shifted, he sat up and stared wide eyed at his brother as the smell hit.

“Want me to get some clean sheets and pyjamas for you?” Theseus offered. Newt shook his head, he seemed unabashed yet awkward at the same time. “Sure?”

“I know the cleaning spells.” There was something in his voice that gave Theseus a pause.

“It’s not the first time it’s happened, is it?” Newt shook his head confirming Theseus’ worry. “Why didn’t you mention it?”

“I’m perfectly capable of dealing with some soiled sheets.” Theseus nodded, not sure what to say. He bid his brother good night after promising to check on him in the morning. It was only when he slipped into his own, cold bed that it occurred to him. Newt never asked about where Graves had disappeared to.

As promised, in the morning Theseus trotted down to Newt and Graves’ bedroom. He had no way of predicting whether Graves was up and back with Newt or not so he knocked lightly on the door at opened it a crack. He peered through and frowned. Newt was sat up in bed, sheets pooled around his waist and he was covered in a sheen of sweat. There was something in his hand which was shaking, he looked exhausted as he fumbled. Theseus let the door open a fraction more but Newt was oblivious to his presence as he pointed the wand at himself. Before he could do anything more than suck in a breath to call out, Newt murmured the spell.

“Crucio.” The effect was immediate, Newt fell backwards, back arched in agony as he struggled to keep the wand pointed at himself. Theseus rushed in, pried the wand from damp cold hands and the spell stopped. His brother lay on the bed gasping for breath.

“Are you out of your mind?” he all but screamed. Newt didn’t reply, didn’t open his eyes. “Why would you do that?”

“I deserve it. I need to feel.” Newt panted but otherwise he stayed still under Theseus’ hand. “Graves wasn’t here. I failed him. I need to feel his pain.”

From the door there was a growl and Theseus backed away from Newt, wand still in hand. He wasn’t going to let Newt anywhere near a wand for a good long while. Not until he realised that it wasn’t to be used for hurting himself. Graves settled on the bed not quite touching Newt and rumbled a warning in his chest. Exasperated, Theseus threw his hands up.

“Fine. Have it your way.” He said and pocketed the wand as he left the room. As the door shut behind him he tried to forget the images of the two broken men huddled so close on the bed yet still islands of isolation in the sea of blankets.

**Author's Note:**

> Got through it? Enjoyed it? Come give me more ideas on tumblr - @ladyoftheshrimp


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